I live “in the moment”,
Sometimes near joy,
But often in torment,
An emotional decoy,
Never knowing,
How I’ll feel next,
Minute to minute,
I can rise, I can fall,
Which is why I’m drawn,
To drugs and alcohol,
Despite their downside,
How bad they can be,
My own emotions quake,
With unpredictability,
I know with drugs and alcohol,
Just where they will take me.
FIRST WORLD PROBLEMS
(Based on a true incident)
Don’t give me your first-world problems,
What to shop and at which store,
You buy iPhones and drop them,
So you have to buy one more,
What do I wear for spinning?
The same outfit as core?
Me I’m desperate for a widdle,
And the maid’s just mopped the floor!
Mr. Tangerine Man
Hey! Mr. Tangerine Man, get away from me.
You’re so creepy, and I don’t know where you’re coming from.
Hey! Mr. Tangerine Man, get away from me,
With your little sausage fingers you’re so proud of.
Though I know that people love you, and I just don’t understand.
Loyal to your brand.
So blindly follow you, though you’re so creepy.
And your appeal amazes me, grows bigger every day.
Endorsed by the KKK
They’re white supremacists. This doesn’t bother you.
Hey! Mr. Tangerine Man, you are scaring me.
I’m uneasy about your fake tan and your hair do.
Hey! Mr. Tangerine Man, you are scaring me.
You’re so racist and the people keep on following you.
Right over a cliff, towards the apocalypse.
Their senses have been stripped, as you smirk and purse your lips.
Your hands too small to steer the ship, cannot wait to get a grip,
On the nuclear codes.
But first we gotta keep the Mexicans out, so we’ll build a great big wall.
Over two hundred feet tall, and make them pay for it all.
You promise that will show them.
Hey! Mr. Tangerine Man, get away from US.
I entreaty you to leave the United States alone.
Hey! Mr. Tangerine Man, get away from US.
Do not dilly dally, just shut up and just go home.
There is a Place on a Small Island
There is a place on a small island.
A place so full of stories and feelings,
That it feels heavy with them.
Like its history has gravity and weight,
And you can feel the very pull of it.
Reminders are everywhere.
Piles of obsolete household items.
Old rowboats and oars.
A boathouse with an ancient padlock.
The company that made it no longer exists,
But it still works.
And every now and then,
Some surprising and special,
Piece of the past is rediscovered.
Like a horse-drawn buggy,
Forgotten in the corner of an old shed.
Long dead are the horses that once pulled it.
As well as the person who put it there.
Other reminders aren’t so well hidden.
Old farming machinery lying exposed,
In the fields of grass that used to be wheat.
The Old Man and his wife used to make bread,
From their own milled wheat flour.
Until eventually they stopped farming,
And he left the machines lying there.
Gathering rust, abandoned to the elements.
Maybe the Old Man meant to remove them,
But eventually became too infirm,
And died before he had the chance.
Now those rusty skeletons adorn the landscape,
Like pieces of modern art sculpture.
Permanent artifacts, telling tales,
Of the island’s agricultural past.
However, not everything has changed.
The sheep are still there,
Still kept in a two-hundred year-old barn.
And still eating the same grass,
That countless generations,
Of their ancestors ate,
At the place on a small island.
No joy in Kangworld…
…today.
And, lo, there it is: the same sinking of the stomach, the same welling of the tears in the eyes, the same weakness in the limbs, the same momentary stall of the heart. It comes as it does, without warning and without regard for whatever I may be doing at the time. Without respect for the remainder of my day. Without regard for whatever mental state I may already be in. And it levels me. It makes me want to hide under the sofa or retreat to my bed, places where I can be alone with the clichéd misery and seething pain that comes with chronic grief. It’s the unyielding, never ending reminder that my best friend is dead.
Five years, two months and one day later, one would think I would have some sort of coping mechanism in place by now. Yet, I don’t. A few years ago I accepted that I never will. There are certain losses from which a person cannot recover. This is mine. This will always be mine.
Today, as I go about the Saturday morning routine of catching up on email, dithering around on the internet, trying to avoid thinking about work, wondering how I’m going to do all the tasks I can’t during the week (and ultimately end up postponing) and cramming in my workouts, I did something incredibly reckless: I looked at the stupid “On This Day…” thing on Facebook because there was an adorable picture of my kid from two years ago. Lured by a picture of my then four year-old son with his face painted like a dog, I started scrolling further down memory lane. And there it was. One of my darker days. The day after I “eulogized” my dead best friend, I was leaving Atlanta. I was leaving behind all future opportunities for shenanigans and high jinks. I was leaving behind my safe place, the place I went when feeling unusually vulnerable, confused about life or exceptionally depressed. The place where I went to celebrate ridiculous things. The place that held over fifteen years of memories in a friendship nearly twice as long. I had, unbelievably, survived the memorial service but it was really time to go, time to move forward and accept life as a darker, lonelier, scarier existence. Oddly, as we were driving on I-75, the old iPod spit out Elliott Smith. I could think of nothing more appropriate (even if Kate didn’t listen to him).
Pain. All pain. All pain, all the time.
Kate’s dad once said something along the lines of “the pain is still present but it’s less acute.” In certain aspects, he’s correct. But there are days when the acuity of the pain is so severe, I feel as if I cannot draw a single breath. There are days I look at my child and think “Only because you’re here, am I.” because that sentiment is true. Be it out of obligation to my child or the fact that he really brings me that much joy, I’m here when I’d much rather not. An anxious depressive who loses her anchor is an anxious depressive who isn’t fighting a battle – she’s fighting a goddamn war. With a fake smile on her face. With a heart that doesn’t want to beat. With a brain that wishes it wouldn’t work. With a spirit that is simply crushed. With a mass of negative emotions she can only lessen with a happy pill or temporary withdrawal from the world around her.
All of this after a dreadfully painful year prior and no immediate end in sight. This landmine that must be crossed is a big one. And, unlike in the past, I have no safe haven in Atlanta. No place to heal. No place to put myself back together. No friend to curl up next to, under a blanket with a giant bottle of wine and massive amount of carbs, and shoulder to cry on. No one to lean on who immediately understands the pain without requiring some sort of explanation as to why certain things bother me as much as they do (and, let’s face it, when one is already upset, having to go into a detailed explanation is exceptionally frustrating).
So, yes. I’m being very selfish today. Whiny. I’m feeling sorry for myself. I’m misbehaving. I’m throwing a tantrum. I’m doing all the rotten, shitty things I do when things don’t go my way. And I’m doing them largely alone, as I have done since 19 December 2010. It’s going to be one of those days where doing one nice thing for someone (as Kate would do) isn’t going to lessen the sting, either. Nope. Today is going to be one of those days when the dam breaks, the emotions flood my world and everyone around me has the good fortune of drowning in my misery because sharing is caring.
At some point, I’ll get my shit together and head out for a long walk – my ersatz Kate (coping mechanism, evener of the keel) – stomp out any aggression and hope the mood elevates a notch thanks to a flood of endorphins and some music. Then, I’ll likely find a pile of blankets and stuff my head under a pillow. Days like this, the chronic grief usually wins and everyone else usually loses. No amount of therapy will ever lick that, either.
Today, there simply isn’t any joy to be found.
Just because something is free, it doesn’t mean it has no value.
Okay, so apparently some people think that if Bernie Sanders were elected POTUS, and he was able to make higher education in the United States free, it would make higher education essentially worthless. Their reasoning goes a little something like this:
If college were free then everyone would go to college, right? Universities would have no entrance requirements whatsoever and would accept anyone who applied. And you would certainly not have do any studying at all in order to graduate, so naturally everyone would finish college. Therefore, every single person would have a degree, even the people cleaning public toilets. Everyone would demand a living wage. The impact on the economy would be disastrous.
Do you really want to live in the kind of world where everyone makes a decent living? What about our god-given right to piss and shit all over the poor just because they’re poor? That’s what Jesus would do.
Anyway, if you are one of these people, please keep the following in mind:
The idea that everyone is going to have a degree just because college is free is ridiculous. Here in Sweden, it’s believed that you shouldn’t have to pay an extortionate amount of money or saddle yourself with a huge debt in order to obtain a college education. Therefore, tuition for higher education is free. However, that doesn’t mean that everyone goes to college. Some would rather start working right away, just like in the United States.
Furthermore, the value of a university degree here is not diminished in the slightest just because you weren’t charged any tuition. University degrees are not easy to get and universities are extremely selective, more so than in the United States. After all, they want to make sure they aren’t wasting tax-payer money on someone who isn’t completely qualified and committed. I have two degrees and excellent transcripts from a top liberal arts university in the States. I have tried twice to get into university here and they’ve rejected my application both times. And yes, you still have to study your ass off in order to earn a degree. A four-year bachelor’s degree earned at an American university is worth only three years’ worth of credits here.
It’s totally nonsensical to assume that just because something that is free it has no value. A “free” university degree here in Sweden is actually worth a hell of a lot more than one you bought and paid for. After all your hard work, you were deemed worthy and granted the enormous privilege of being accepted to a university and earning a degree. And NO ONE takes that lightly.
Go Fuck Yourself Weekly: Daryush Valizadeh aka RooshV
“How many noes does it take to enter a vagina?”
“Make rape legal if done on private property.”
This is one of those instances when I’m honestly not sure whether this RooshV person is actually serious or whether his extremely misogynist – what he terms “neomasculist” – views are simply trolling everyone, with feminists as the particular target. The statements above and the following statement seem a little too calculated to be genuine:
“Under my proposal, a girl will protect her body in the same manner that she protects her purse and smartphone…If rape becomes legal, she will never be unchaperoned with a man she doesn’t want to sleep with.”
Apparently, he thinks that a woman’s body and her genitals in particular are the same thing as her purse and her smartphone. You know, just some stuff that’s up for grabs if it’s not locked up. I suppose if he saw someone’s phone sitting on their desk at work, that he would help himself to it. Why wouldn’t he? Obviously, they wanted him to have it. And likewise, any man who finds himself alone with a woman should feel free to coerce her into sex, or if that doesn’t work, simply force himself on her. Technically, it wouldn’t be forcing her at all since she gave him her tacit consent as soon as she stepped across his threshold.
And, hey, if rape on private property was legal then there would be a lot less rape, right? It’s a win-win situation. Only a rape committed by a stranger in a back alley is a real rape anyway. If a friend or a colleague or classmate gets a woman alone then he’s entitled to her body.
The message to women is clear: if you don’t feel like having sex with a man then don’t be alone with him, ever. And as for the men, if you’re in a committed relationship and you really don’t want to cheat on your significant other, then for God’s sake don’t allow yourself to be alone with any woman. You know you’re incapable of controlling yourself.
Mediocrity
Mediocre [mee-dee-oh-ker]
adjective
1. of only ordinary or moderate quality; neither good nor bad; barely adequate:
The car gets only mediocre mileage, but it’s fun to drive.
Synonyms: undistinguished, commonplace, pedestrian, everyday; run-of-the-mill.
Antonyms: extraordinary, superior, uncommon, incomparable.
2. not satisfactory; poor; inferior:
Mediocre construction makes that building dangerous.
Synonyms: meager, low-quality, second-rate; so-so.
Antonyms: excellent, superior.
Look, I’m really trying not to allow myself to fall into the pattern of simply whining for its own sake. It’s easy to say, “oh, woe is me,” and expect everyone to shower you with kindness and sympathy. No one appreciates a drama queen, which is perhaps why I took so long to admit that I was having serious problems with stress management at work, to the point where I just physically broke down and mentally burned out. Even now, I hesitate writing this down because I don’t want to be seen as a whiner.
After all, it’s only stress, right? It’s an occupational hazard of being a teacher. You learn to handle it, channel it, and make it driving force in your working life. In my case, everything starting falling apart when I could not stop worrying and obsessing about work, about wanting it to be productive and positive and knowing that all my efforts at making it such were completely futile. Then I tried to achieve a Zen-like state of simply not giving a shit, but that didn’t work at all. My colleagues are really good at maintaining that balance of caring just enough, but not to the point of obsessing over it. It’s a very typically Swedish lagom (meaning:”just enough”) mentality. And while the principle behind it is admirable, in my experience it often leads to a state of complacency that justifies expending the least amount of effort possible, which leads to substandard work, which leads to mediocre at best and often poor results. But I just care too damn much.
My Swedish colleagues have no idea what its like out there. I’ve worked in schools in America and in schools in Sweden founded by Americans. They expect results. Real positive results. Mediocrity should not be the goal. Mediocrity is not acceptable.
Broken Blade
I used to be a teacher,
As sharp as a well-made knife,
That was meant to be used roughly,
Every day to take a little punishment.
Tempered and sharpened over the years,
Hardened and indestructible,
But at the same time, flexible.
Slicing through problems,
So gently and delicately.
Like they were almost nothing.
I used to be a teacher,
Able withstand the abuse from students.
That’s part of a teacher’s job description.
You take it and if it wears you down,
You sharpen yourself,
And go back to work again.
But long have they been,
Desiring my absence.
All their efforts,
Focused on this task.
They missed no opportunity,
To sabotage.
Contaminate.
Humiliate.
To wear down my former sharpness.
They’ve done it.
They win.
I’m nothing but a useless dull blade,
That finally broke in half,
But I used to be a teacher.
To My Son Christopher, On The Occasion Of The Birth Of His First Son, Elliott
He is the first son
Of the first son
Of the first son
Of the first son
The oldest son
Of the oldest son
Of the oldest son
Of the oldest son
Your son extends beyond you,
Into the future,
And behind you,
Into the past.
He will be the first son of the first son of the first son of the first son,
But he will be one.
Not many.
Though he be connected, he will not be them.
But without them, he would not be.
He will not be them,
And he will not be you.
He will be he,
And claim his place in the world.
In time,
It is possible,
He will in turn meet his first son.
Another connected one.
Random Misanthrope 